


pillow talks (... sort of)

by novoaa1



Series: sundresses and semi-automatics [3]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Guns, Light Dom/sub, Reader-Insert, Safe Sane and Consensual, but also like, but isnt that kind of par for hte course? who can say, but like reader is into it, confident natasha, discussion of safe words and stuff!, discussion of safe words!, flustered reader, idk - Freeform, mob!natasha, natashas kind of cocky, pretty much just filth, sort of morally grey natasha ish, theres basically no plot here, uhhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22332367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: I mean.... it's just you guys getting it on, really. I can't think up much of a summary that goes beyond that.
Relationships: Natasha Romanov/Reader
Series: sundresses and semi-automatics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602451
Comments: 5
Kudos: 91





	pillow talks (... sort of)

**Author's Note:**

> :)

She’s going to be the death of you, you know—Natasha, that is. 

Still, though, you think there’s a part of you that wouldn’t mind dying, not so long as it feels like this. 

And you _swear_ you’re not just saying that because she has you pinned solidly up against the wall right now with absolutely no hopes of escape (though it’s not as if you’d ever wish for such a thing, anyhow), or because of the thoroughly _sinful_ way her tongue moves languidly against yours in a domineering kiss that leaves you positively _dizzy_ with the sheer magnitude of it, or even that she seems to know your body better than you ever have when she flips up your skirt and begins tracing your most sensitive spots through dampened black lace panties with agile fingers that really have no business being as skilled as they’re proving themselves to be at that moment in time. 

Whatever, okay?

You’re desperate—entirely bare unto Natasha’s all-consuming touch save for a high-waisted fleece-white skirt sitting snugly above your hips that only barely reaches mid-thigh, a lacey black thong you’re sure is altogether ripe with your fragrant arousal (and only becoming more so with every moment Natasha spends inching you further towards the brink of madness with this _torturous_ teasing), and a pair of fuzzy pale-pink socks on either foot that Natasha had commented favorably upon earlier.

(You think you felt your heated blush reach the very tips of your ears when she’d quirked a single brow down at the fuzzy pale-pink socks in question once you carefully toed off your shoes after being invited in. 

Still, you held your ground… sort of: worrying your lower lip nervously between your teeth and pointedly resisting the deafening voice in your brain that screamed for you to run and escape the crushing weight of her watchful inspection—and, before long, she was murmuring out a bemused, “Adorable" with that unreasonably attractive smirk dimpling her perfect cheeks, green eyes darting back up to study you intently even whilst you ducked your head bashfully in a futile attempt to hide just how much that simple compliment affected you.

God, you were so gone for her right from the very start.)

And now, you're here: forcibly pressed up against the beige-painted wall just across from (presumably) Natasha’s bedroom, half-naked body writhing desperately against Natasha’s fully-clothed figure (a rather quaint portrayal of the underlying power dynamics currently at play), her full lips trapping yours in a searing kiss that’s sure to bruise by morning as she continues those utterly _heavenly_ ministrations atop your lace-covered clit all the while. 

“Natasha, _please_ ,” you whine into her mouth when those intoxicating lips suddenly pull away from yours, moving instead to trail hot, wet kisses from the delicate skin beneath your jawline down to your collarbone in lieu of reply. 

Her slender arm tightens in an unmistakable show of authority around your naked waist ( _God, she’s strong_ ), the slim fingers dancing dexterously across your clit are traded for the heel of her roughened palm grinding oh-so-pleasurably against your core, and you can’t help the truly depraved whimper that escapes you upon the realization that you’re going to cum, that she’s going to _make_ you cum (embarrassingly soon, too, if this persists). 

“Oh God, oh God, oh _God_ ,” you chant deliriously, nearly out of your own mind at the maddening sensation of your body being so effortlessly manipulated by someone so assertive and _dominant_ … God, you never want it to end. “I—"

You stop yourself short with a choked moan as Natasha bends to take a single pebbled nipple in her mouth, tongue laving and ravishing the sensitive bud in cavernous warmth, the utterly heavenly sensation (especially when combined with her palm grinding so exquisitely against your clit) more than enough to have you hurtling towards a powerful orgasm with more haste than you originally would have thought even remotely plausible. 

“N-Nat, you—" Another obscenely high-pitched whimper (on your part, obviously) stops you mid-sentence, and you feel her pillowy lips curve into a pleased smirk around your nipple as you search frantically for the words. “Nat, p-please, gonna cum—I _need_ —"

Her mouth pulls abruptly away from you, then, ripping a weak cry from your lips at the sudden loss whilst she rises back up to her full height against you (she’s a few inches taller than you are, but it’s enough to make for a somewhat noticeable difference)—but her deft movements against your clothed pussy don’t let up, and you find a vague sort of respite in that knowledge even as all other rational thought seems to escape you with startling haste. 

“I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge here,” she growls lowly, intense green-eyed gaze fixed immovably upon yours, her warm breath ghosting torturously over your kiss-swollen lips. 

(It’s all you can do not to let loose a truly wanton whimper at her peremptory words.)

“I—Nat, I’m sorry, I just—" You interrupt yourself ( _again_ ) with a mewling squeal when her hand disappears from your panty-covered core only to come back down a split second later, delivering an open-palmed slap to your most delicate parts that turns the edges of your vision white with pleasure and pain and sheer _euphoria_. 

“You think I’d let you cum, just like that?” she questions (though you can tell it’s somewhat rhetorical), her typically provocative tone hardened with steely disapproval that has you shuddering involuntarily against her. "Just because you walked into _my penthouse_ dressed like a fucking _tease_ , giving me those ‘Fuck me’ eyes and pouting your pretty pink lips at me all afternoon? You think, after all that, you get to make demands of me?”

You whimper pitifully, feeling yourself shrink reflexively beneath her stern gaze… though, you’re not quite sure why you bother—the overall effectiveness of the insubstantial movement turns out to be rather moot, with one of her toned arms curled so solidly around your waist and the other now tightly gripping your hip beneath your skirt and your body pressed so firmly against the wall behind you that you don’t stand even the faintest chance of escaping if you tried.

Still, your naked chest heaves and your arms twitch impatiently where they rest immobile at your sides (Natasha had warned you, in no uncertain terms, that she’d cease her ministrations the moment you touched her without her explicit say-so) and your core positively _throbs_ for even the faintest sliver of attention, for more of Natasha’s touch (… even if she doesn’t let you cum).

“Answer me,” she snarls, punctuating her command with another harsh slap to your panty-covered clit and smirking perversely as it rips another delirious sob from your hoarse throat. 

“I— _please_ , Nat—“

Another slap. (Another frantic yelp on your part.) “ _Now_.” 

“No!” you blurt out, your beseeching tone something of a cross between a whimper and a sob, eyes welling with frustrated tears. 

Her fiendish smirk only widens, a bemused glint making itself known in jade-green irises. “Is that all?”

_What?_ “I—y- _yes?_ " you stammer out, wiggling futilely in her strong embrace. (You don’t get anywhere with it… obviously.) 

“Wrong answer,” Natasha chides, her hand releasing your hip to curl tightly around your upper arm and yank you forcefully off the wall, before decisively guiding you to stumble your way across the hall and through the open doorway of Natasha’s room, her authoritative hands unfaltering upon your bare skin all the while.

— — 

Her room is nice, you think—simple. White-painted walls, polished hardwood flooring (it feels almost slippery beneath your fuzzy-sock-clad feet), a large California king-sized bed topped with expensive-looking snow-white sheets and various plushy white pillows sitting opposite a sleek mahogany desk. 

All in all, it looks rather mundane, as bedrooms go—especially for someone in business with your one so powerful as your father. 

(Well, that is, except for the twin black HK VP9s and singular blue-skinned UMP-45 submachine gun glinting in the low light atop her desk.

Still, those details don’t bother you—and, truth be told, they haven’t for quite some time.

It’s simply a part of your life, now—par for the course, if you will.)

“Sit,” she orders, confident and resolute, gesturing vaguely towards the neatly-made bed to your right with an absentminded flick of her wrist.

Swallowing thickly to yourself, you do. 

“Now,” she drawls richly, sliding out the ornately-carved mahogany chair from her desk and pulling it into position directly across from where you sit—she lowers herself down onto it, then, all measured movements and quiet poise as you look dazedly on, making a concerted effort keep your previously agape mouth shut all the while. “Let’s talk.”

(Now that you’ve acquired some distance—or, now that Natasha’s _made_ the two of you acquire some distance, rather… You can’t help being more than a little awestruck at the sight of her perched in an undoubtedly self-assured manner atop her chair, not to mention doing so in such a way that you’d find unquestionably irritating were it anyone else, if only for the sheer measure of _arrogance_ it radiated.

It's almost vainglorious, the way she holds herself—not that you mind, of course. 

She’s not dressed any differently than she normally is, either: slim-fitting black jeans with fashionable rips at the knees, skin-tight black tank-top and tightly-laced-up black combat boots on either foot to match. 

Her hair is pulled up into a neat pony-tail at the crown of her skull, the immaculately straightened locks of fiery-red hair falling tidily past the nape of her neck—God, you yearn to run your fingers through each silken strand, to smooth out every last tangle with careful hands, basking in the knowledge that Natasha is allowing you to do it, that she’s _trusting_ you to be close to her in that way.

God, you’re so gone for her at this point, it isn’t even funny.)

You blink owlishly back at her, your lust-addled mind racing to comprehend what she’s just said. “T-Talk?”

The corner of her lips curl into the barest hint of a smirk as she leans comfortably back in her chair, legs purposefully spread more than a shoulder’s width apart, pale toned arms crossed snugly beneath her tank-top-clad chest. “Yes, милая,” she repeats smoothly, your thighs clenching reflexively together at the way that foreign word sounds coming from those gorgeous lips. (You think you must be imagining it, but you could swear you see her forest-green eyes glimmer with something like self-righteous mirth at your body’s involuntary response.) “Talk.”

Your delicately folded hands tremble where they lay neatly in your lap, arms wrought with unbearable tension as you resist the near overpowering urge to cover your naked chest from her questing gaze. “O-Okay,” you stammer out, nervous apprehension filling your chest. “Um, about what?”

Natasha’s lopsided smirk widens at that, as if you’ve just asked a particularly imprudent (yet endearing, somehow) question—one she’s all too happy to elucidate upon in order to satisfy your wide-eyed curiosity. “Are you familiar with the concept of a safe word, Y/N?”

You resist the urge to gulp audibly. “Y-Yes, Natasha.”

“Have you ever used one?” she asks then, her tone calm and measured; devoid of judgement. 

Still, you flush fervently beneath her cool gaze, ducking your head bashfully and murmuring a quiet, “Yes” in answer.

“Look at me, sweet girl,” she orders ever-so-gently—and yet, there’s a certain steel underlying her tone just the same, one that has your trembling thighs clenching tightly together beneath your skirt and your heated blush worsening tenfold before you really have any time to think about why it affects you so dynamically as it does, much less the sizable implications it holds. 

Cheeks flaming with embarrassment, you do—obediently lifting your chin, darting your gaze back up to meet those wholly electrifying irises of mossy green, deliberately resisting the compulsion to blush and hide yourself all over again as an undeniably predatory grin overtakes her ethereal features. 

“Good. _Very_ good,” she lauds warmly, an unreadable glint in her eye even as you can’t help but squirm in place atop the bedsheets (you’re sure you’re beginning to leave a wet spot) beneath the intensely pleasurable weight of her words. “I’d like you to come up with a safe word for yourself before this goes any further. Do you understand?”

You nod jerkily. 

“Use your words, sweetheart,” she admonishes without hesitation, slinking forward to rest her elbows upon her jean-clad knees, intent gaze never straying from your flushed features—you feel your thighs clench beneath your skirt. ( _Again_.)

“I—Y-Yes, Natasha, I understand.”

Natasha gives a slight nod, her lips curling into a lazy smirk, lustful eyes shamelessly appraising your half-naked form. “Good girl.”

— —

**Author's Note:**

> милая | _milaya_ | darling; sweetheart (term of endearment)
> 
> o and here's my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/) (or you can just search me @ultralightdumbass) if u wanna come yell at me there!


End file.
